I. The Men of Letters have always chosen their own endings. Sam, shoulder-to shoulder, breathing with his brother but not their last. This, Dean says, ain't how it's gonna be.

II. Cuthbert Sinclair, Magnus, infamati, made the bunker disappear in another life. Tried, anyway; access by spell alone. Died in his cloak, monster for his own zoo.

III. This was never a home. But now Sam pats the wall once, says: then how's it gonna be. Their guest's tied up in the war room, shackled for who knows how long, sigils against which she stopped cursing an hour ago.

IV. Mom, Dean says, as if he's fallen asleep against Sam's shoulder, wards in the walls around them. Maybe he has.

V. They could die here. Spirits to stalk the halls (hammerless, Dean says) until they slip the veil, refuse to leave or pass on, find out what it means to fuck over a reaper. Never know or care what wipes the world clean. Drive on into the empty and not look back.

VI. This was never a home. Or it was. Enough to set their marks on. What will we leave behind, Dean said, and Sam smiled. Dirty dishes or saved souls.

VII. What will you.

VIII. This spell, powder that shines their noses as though they were kids again, burnt herbs that suck O2, flash-incant and it'll be forgotten, disappear--this place, this life, this story, this them.

IX. Or it'll open a door.

X. Ex-cape, Dean says, laughs. His breath's a little short but he's OK. Physical effects not special, he says, they can't out-magic us. Yeah, Sam says.This was the place they lived, settled, grew into something else, grew old.

XI. The Men of Letters went down in a demon firefight, whatever it was.They were extinct, all their closures condensed until some legacies dug them from their own archive, read them all out.